Investigating Things That Begin With the Letter…
by Naranne
Summary: The Alphabet Challenge. A series of one-shots and drabbles centered around Alice Kingsley and the Hatter, each inspired by a singular word beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. Rating will go up in later chapters. Burtonverse.
1. A: Angel

**A/N: **Sorry guys. It's the first chapter… so you get lumped with the boring stuff. .

You all know the drill: a series of one-shots/drabbles, each one prompted by a singular word beginning with each letter of the alphabet.

I'll put any warnings, etc., at the start of each chapter, as the rating _will go up_ in later chapters.

Also, screw fanfiction dot net and their hatred of my formatting. I really _do not_ get it. Is anyone else having the problem where it just eats everything you do? I have to do it about three or four times before it sticks.

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**Prompt:** Angel.

**Rating: **K.

**Warnings:** None.

**Length: **Drabble.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Alice in Wonderland (2010), nor am I aiming to make any profit from this. If I owned it, the original script would have _stayed._

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**Angel**

_By Naranne_

As a little girl, Alice had once pondered the reality of angels. She had wondered if there truly was a gracious saviour who could guide, guard, and aid one in a time of need. However, all too soon the nightmares began, and she held little hope for the existence of such beings when none appeared to aid her, no matter how much she may have wished for it. Instead, as frightening as the strange inhabitants of her dreams had appeared at times, there was nothing to suggest that in themselves, they did not offer her their own kind of solace. However, the young Kingsleigh found her greatest relief in the presence of her father, and came to an abrupt decision that there was no need for angels of the heavenly sort—not when one so close to home could banish the frights of night with his care and attention.

Despite her decision, when Charles Kingsleigh passed away, Alice was left in a quandary.

With her earth-bound, inspirational angel taken so swiftly from her, Alice held the fleeting thought that perhaps she should cast her search skyward once more, yet soon rationalised that creatures responsible solely for the care of their charges would not have allowed such a thing to happen. Quickly, she came to realise that although she might believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast—as her father had been wont to do—and entertained flights of fancy which were frowned upon by society for their unrealistic quality, the realm of the spiritual was far beyond her grasp.

Helen Kingsleigh, viewing herself far more down-to-earth than her wayward daughter, did herself believe in higher powers than she, and sent prayers to whichever guardian spirit might be listening with a plea to guide her daughter.

However, as the carriage rattled toward the estate of Lord and Lady Ascot, Alice could think of nothing more than the dream which had so suddenly gripped her once more. The thought of angels returned to her mind, fleeing as swiftly as it had come when the inevitable lecture regarding codfishes and other restraining garments fell upon her ears. Yet, despite her efforts to the contrary, Alice could not shake from her flighty, unrestrained mind the images of a pair of brilliant, mischievous green eyes, a blue, smoke-wreathed caterpillar and, dancing feverishly behind them, a minute, white dormouse, sword gripped tightly in one tiny paw. Perhaps, Alice mused, it was not so far beyond her to propose that such beings _did_ exist—even if it did go strictly against the reality she had evolved for herself, one of reasoning, logic, impossibility and the inbuilt desire to follow in her father's footsteps.

The son of the esteemed Ascots was stuffy and intolerable, and did not seem interested in the slightest in Alice's frequently voiced wonderings. It bothered her to no end that the son of the man whom Alice held in such high regard could be nothing more than a well-bred, perfectly trained gentleman who had no desire to explore the realm of what _could_ be possible. Although Alice highly doubted Lord Ascot entertained visions of the ladies dancing in trousers and the men in dresses, she was absolutely certain of the fact that he had drive and determination and the desire to venture beyond the norm.

The news that she received from the chattering twins, the disturbing "peaceful stroll" she had been forced to accompany the Lady Ascot on, and the continued appearance of the rabbit in the waistcoat all served to push Alice further towards the edge. Her nerves were strained, her thoughts erratic, and she was near certain that she was nearing the edge of madness—however, it was then that her father's voice reverberated in her thoughts, after she had enquired as a little girl whether or not she was truly mad: "... all the best people are." Despite herself, her thoughts and the jumble of emotions warring inside of her, Alice was remarkably unfazed by the appearance of a startlingly blue caterpillar perched on Hamish Ascot's shoulder, contrastingly starkly with his bright, red hair.

Confronted with parallels from her nightmares as a child—and dreams which had taken hold of her so suddenly once again—Alice felt her feet fly of her own accord, following the rabbit's quick footsteps through the large, twisting mazes upon the Ascot's estate. A flash of blue waistcoat there, a glimpse of white fur—thanking the freedom of movement she gained from her refusal to wear a corset, Alice found herself unable to concentrate on where she ran or whom she followed, her legs working on instinct and determination rather than being propelled by conscious thought.

As Alice Kingsleigh knelt at the edge of the rabbit-hole into which the neatly dressed mammal had presumably vanished, a face swam into focus; whether from memory or dream, reality or imagination, she could not tell. The details, however, were startlingly clear: bright, green eyes, colour never a constant shade, a frizz of vivid hair, an infectious grin, and, just beyond her reach, the vague impression that atop that clearly recalled face should sit, precariously perched, something grand and yet, at the same time, somewhat quirky.

The earth gave way beneath her before she had time to react, the image from her dream blurring and vanishing as quickly as it had come.

However, as she first tumbled down that rabbit-hole, the light from the world above vanishing rapidly before her very eyes, one word reverberated clearly in Alice Kingsleigh's mind:

_Angel._

_

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_**A/N:** Can anyone also give a shout of: ohmygod I updated? Even though it's not from my usual fandom(s), but whatever.

Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Much love,

Naranne


	2. B: Blood

**Prompt: **Blood.

**Rating: **T to be safe.

**Warnings:** Implied torture, I guess? Nothing strong, though.

**Length: **Drabble.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Alice in Wonderland—any version of it.

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**Blood**

_by Naranne_

_

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_

There was blood on his hands—literal, real, blood, dried and caked on the bandages that were wrapped around his palms. There was blood elsewhere, too; the prisoner had not been allowed to go without humiliation, not when he resisted their attempts to break him so persistently. However, it was the blood on his hands that caught his attention the most.

His trade was not one where his hands totally escaped unharmed; it was common for his friends to see a bandage where he had pricked himself on a wayward needle, or where a careless mishap with a sharpened pair of scissors had landed him with a neat little cut. Even his companions had dealt each other their fair share of injuries—albeit, by complete accident (for the most part; if one angered the feisty mouse, one had best beware her vicious hatpin). After all, broken china _was_ rather sharp.

However, this blood was different.

This blood was because of _someone else_.

lliilliilliill

There was blood on her hands—metaphorical, to be sure; she had not been harmed… _yet._ However, she could not shake the thought that no matter what she did, what path she chose, there would be blood spilt on her account. Whether it was to be directly by her hand or not, bloodshed was inevitable. As if of its own accord—since when did the thing do as told, anyway?—her mind conjured for her a long stretch of images from past, present and future. Memory, truth; worry for what was to come.

The lacerations on her arm, and the moment the incident had occurred, those long, foul claws ripping, slicing through her flesh. The insufferable amount of red at court; a deep, unavoidable red, like the life that pulsed through her veins. The angry, red flesh where the cords had been harshly tied around the poor hedgehog's legs, blood brought unnecessarily to the surface, ready to spill over. The thought of how her friends were captive—because of _her—_and how brutal their captors could be, all because they held hope that _she_ would take up the mantle of champion and _slay_. His eyes, bloodshot and tired when he was brought before them, and the stab of horrified guilt when she saw dried blood on fresh wounds, peeking out from beneath his jacket as if to taunt her.

lliilliilliill

When he lifted the long, heavy sword to strike at the man who had put him through so much pain and suffering, he was filled with a bloodlust the likes of which he had never before experienced. He wanted nothing more than to make this man—nay, this _beast_—suffer for what he had put his friends through, for what had been done to his beloved home with that man's aid under the banner of a horrid woman. However, the memory which spurred him on the most was of a time when word reached his ears of how the animal before him had _dared_ attempt to force himself upon _her_. The very thought of it caused bloodlust and rage to fly into his heart. With a snarl, he pressed forward, dark orange eyes tinged with red.

lliilliilliill

When she lifted the long, heavy sword to strike at the chosen champion of the woman responsible for all the suffering endured by friends and the land she had come to love, she found within the depths of her a driving determination, an unshakable will unlike any she had ever known. The same force drove her onward after her shield lay splintered, drove her to charge up the steep stone stairs, drove her to guide the sword in her hands to seek the beast's head. The weapon's focused desire was akin to a rippling current of energy, coursing down the blade and through her, propelling her onward. Suddenly, inexplicably, she found herself possessed of rage and an unmistakable, unshakable want for _blood._

lliilliilliill

As he gazed at the vial of swirling, purple blood in her hands, a gift of gratitude to a true champion, a feeling of trepidation stole over him. He knew the power of that certain magical fluid, knew that it would take her twirling away, back to her home. So long had his thoughts revolved around blood and bloodshed that he found other words beginning with that letter were floating to the surface.

When she flicked open the stopper of that vial, preparing to drink, a word came to him, unbidden.

_Bereft._

However, as he reminded her, gently, softly, pleadingly, that she did not have to leave, a different light came into her eyes. Slowly, it drove away the determination that had previously filled those orbs—the expression dancing around her features, one she seemed blithely unaware of, and the smile hovering around her lips, was enough to incite a soft blush in his cheeks.

However, as she firmly recapped the vial, tucking it away, out of sight, he found a wide grin spreading across his face, the blush on his face burning brighter as another word came to his mind. Unthinking, he reached out a hand to her.

_Beloved._

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**A/N:** I'M SORRY I MADE YOU KIND OF ANGSTY, ALICE. Forgive me?

What do people think of the whole not-mentioning-their-names-at-all thing? Confusing? Personally, I love writing this way, but then I have to think of what I'm going to refer to everyone _else_ as, because a lot of "he" and "she" gets very confusing.

Much love,

Naranne.

PS: I HATE TO RE-DO THIS CHAPTER IN HERE BECAUSE THE SITE ATE EVERYTHING. AGAIN. THERE WERE NO BREAKS IN IT. –ultra sad-face–


	3. C: Caffeine

**A/N: **GASP. I updated.

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**Prompt:** Caffeine.

**Rating: **K.

**Warnings:** FLUFF. A teensy bit of angst. :3

**Length: **Medium! Yay for it being longer than the previous two.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Alice in Wonderland (2010), nor am I aiming to make any profit from this.

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**Caffeine**

_by Naranne_

Oh, yes. Alice Kingsleigh was most definitely well acquainted with caffeine.

The affair had begun one positively dreary afternoon well before her second tumble down the rabbit hole (and her decision to stay _put_ right where she belonged, in Underland), when the young, headstrong woman had escaped her mother's clutches and yet another speech regarding matrimony. She had swiped a few coins from her vanity, and had ventured daringly out into the town, bent on finding something far more interesting to do than listen patiently to her mother go into great detail about how she must be cared for and provided for. However, in her haste she had forgotten just how cold it could get in London. She had certainly not counted on losing herself in winding streets, or on the chill beginning to seep in through her thin clothing, more than adequate for the fire-warmed lounge of the manor, yet woefully ill-equipped to deal with a biting winter wind.

Shortly after, Alice found herself seated in a blessedly warm café in a small side-street she had previously not known existed, feeling herself beginning to thaw out from tip to toe and having ordered the very first warm drink she spied. However, the steaming cup that was placed in front of her was something the likes of which she had never seen before. The first sip left a burning, bitter after-taste, yet after a few more gulps Alice found she rather liked the odd concoction. And strangely, after she left the café, having ordered another cup full of the steaming, dark liquid, she found herself positively buzzing.

Thus, Alice Kingsleigh discovered coffee, that magical liquid which allowed her father to stay up far past the sun obsessing over his work, and which, from that point onward, she relied on quite regularly.

That fact, of course, was something which dearest Helen needn't become aware of.

However, despite Underland's many perks (and its vast abundance of tea), there was a darned shortage of coffee. In fact, Alice, just over a year after the Frabjous Day, had begun to doubt that the inhabitants of that vibrant, colourful world even knew how to grow the beans which produced the stuff. So it was that Alice, exhausted by the celebrations surrounding her defeat of the Jabberwocky and the triumph over the Red Queen, began to crave that gorgeous beverage which she had so long been denied.

It was with heavy footfalls that Alice escaped the throngs of people which a year on still longed to see, touch, and admire their champion, and made her way to Mirana's extensive quarters in the centre of her Palace. An idea had abruptly taken hold of her as she had been considering the fact that the celebrations and all the dreary formalities surrounding them had down-right drained her, and that tea no longer seemed enough to give her that _buzz_ she remembered. The idea was a crazy one, to be sure, but she was positive that if anyone could aid her, it would be the White Queen.

After all, when one sought magic, there was only one person who was guaranteed to have the answers.

And the driving force behind Alice's now hurried journey to seek out Mirana concerned magic of two very different kinds.

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Tarrant Hightopp had always been the life of the party – and when an event as momentous as the _Frabjous Day_ was being celebrated, there was sure to be a most excellent party to be had. Why, he had danced the futterwacken until his feet were fit to burst, the muscles in his face were sore from the grin stretching them taut, and his sides near splitting from the continuous energy which that marvellous dance required.

The grand hall of Mirana's pristine white palace had been done up splendidly. Colourful banners and tapestries woven especially to commemorate the occasion hung from the walls, eliciting many gasps of admiration from the assembled crowd. Tables had been set up around the edges of the hall in order to accommodate the tremendous number of people the celebration had drawn to the palace, and at one end of the hall, a large, moving picture of Alice and her Queen had been erected, hanging from the ceiling and fluttering down to the ground, rippling in the slight breeze that came in from out doors. However, in the very centre of the dance floor, the crowd had formed a ring, and in its middle Tarrant was to be found, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes shining the most brilliant shade of green imaginable.

However, he had eyes only for the small group directly in front of him. Mallykum, who had been presented with an elegant miniature sword by the Queen herself, which the little mouse wore proudly at her side at all times (although she kept her hatpin hidden away, so as not to lose it, for she was far too sentimentally attached to it). Bayard and his family, bathed especially for the occasion with potions brewed by Mirana that made their fur shine, and smell positively brilliant. Chessur floated daintily above their heads, large, gleaming eyes focused constantly upon the ostentatious hat perched atop Tarrant's vibrant hair. The Tweedles, arguing constantly between themselves as they applauded their friend, their constant remarks back and forth regarding something which in all likelihood only they understood. Yet most of all, he was concerned with –

Tarrant frowned, pausing mid-dance yet not putting his feet flat on the floor, so concentrated was he upon the thought which had suddenly struck him that he balanced precariously (yet perfectly, not wavering an inch) with one foot poised in the air, and the other curled up on its toes. His audience enquired feverishly as to the reasoning behind his sudden halt, but he gave them no answer, instead cutting a path straight through their midst – with a polite _excuse me_, _pardon me_, of course – and heading toward where he knew Mirana would be, in her quarters. His audience was left in his wake, dumbfounded for two reasons: one, how he could balance so exquisitely and perfectly, and two, why ever he would vanish so abruptly.

Berating himself for not noticing sooner as he hurried to the Queen faster than he knew was probably reasonable – he'd gotten himself lost more than once in the palace's twisting corridors, running far too fast as some thought or another struck.

Really, he chided himself, it should have been glaringly obvious. Yet for some reason, it had escaped him.

_Alice was missing._

She'd been right _there,_ directly in his line of sight, yet he had missed her apparent vanishing act!

However, as he skidded to a halt outside the Queen's rooms, and knocked politely on her door – after calming himself as much as he was able – he was greeted with a lofty smile by Mirana herself, as she informed him that Alice was simply out on an _errand_, would be returning shortly, and that he should not worry about her whereabouts. He felt the hopeful grin adorning his face fade into a subdued smile, yet he remembered his manners well enough to thank the White Queen for her kindness and her information, and could have sworn he was afforded a knowing smile as she retreated back into her rooms, away from the cacophony of the celebrations.

Fighting the small scowl trying to steal its way across his features, Tarrant stomped back to his own quarters to sulk, and await Alice's return.

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Alice could only think of one word to describe the feeling when she finally returned to the White Queen's palace, seated herself before the fire, cradled the steaming cup in her lips, and took the first sip: _bliss_. It was that cold winter's day all over again, except this time, upon returning to the world above and sneaking through the Ascots' mansion grounds to the town beyond, she had gone directly to the source, and had discovered an excellent new invention.

Instant. Coffee.

Apparently, time had been toying with them again, as several more years had passed in the world above. It had been only one short year in Underland, and yet, almost ten had passed in London – however, Alice gave little thought to considering the pros and cons of the differences in time. Upon returning to London, she had afforded her family a polite visit (she had managed to keep in contact with them in the last few weeks via letters: although the first, a mere few days after the Frabjous Day, had been delivered by Alice herself, McTwisp had consented to leave the remainder by the rabbit hole when Alice resumed writing to her relatives, and Alice's very confused family had learnt that there was where they would find the pristine envelopes). She stayed as long as she felt she was able to – although she felt a great swell of happiness at seeing her mother and sister again, she barely escaped another lecture on matrimony and settling down sensibly – before ensuring the remainder of her visit was as crisply co-ordinated and concise as possible.

As it was, she had bought several bags of the stuff, and upon returning to Underland, she had rode astride the patient Bandersnatch, who had delivered her immediately back to the White Queen's palace. Whilst Alice had always fought the restraints and manners of the English gentility as a child, she had been indoctrinated enough that she remembered to thank Mirana profusely for giving her the means to return to the world above – for her part, the Queen simply smiled loftily and assured the blonde that it really was nothing to concern herself over, peeping out the doors to her room as she did so. Had Alice not been so keen to reunite herself with her beloved beverage, she might have paused to question the knowing glint in the Queen's eyes as she bid her farewell, or why it was that Mirana had near blockaded herself in her quarters in the first place.

The sounds of the celebrations still tumbling onward in the remainder of the Palace barely reached Alice once she had set the kettle to boil, retrieved her favourite tea-cup, and settled herself down to wait. There was a restrained urgency to her actions as Alice carefully spooned perhaps a fair few more tea-spoons than was necessary of the crumbly dark brown powder into the cup, creating dark splashes on the sides of the pristine white china. The arm-chair was somewhat forgotten as Alice knelt on the floor of her rooms before the table, waiting for her coffee to cool down before she remembered that she was still wearing the dress she had been gifted with for the celebrations, and ought not to be dirtying it on the floor.

A content sigh escaped her as she closed her eyes, the hot beverage warming her from the inside out, its familiar, bitter after-taste lingering pleasantly in the back of her mouth and throat. Alice was not sure how long she simply sat there, curled up in her comfortable, worn arm-chair by the fire, feeling the coffee in her system chase away the drowsiness the celebrations had caused to take hold. Almost as good as the first sip was the moment when the heavy feeling in her eye-lids dissipated, and Alice thanked her lucky stars that she had been able to get her hands on that caffeine filled goodness. As much as she adored the exquisite flavours of tea, there was simply not enough _kick_.

However, it was not long before she was brought out of her calm, nostalgic reverie: there was a tremendously loud knock on the door to her rooms, and Alice was so startled that she nearly jumped, the precious liquid nearly spilling over the rim of the cup. The thought crossed her mind that a large coffee stain would have been a far bigger strain on the poor dress than kneeling on the floor, and a small scowl stole its way onto her face as whoever it was that sought entrance to her rooms knocked again, louder and more persistently than the first time. Setting her cup down _carefully_ on the table adjacent to her arm-chair, she called for them to enter, schooling her features into what she hoped was a polite smile. After all, it was rather hard to stay mad when her system had just been inundated with hot, caffeinated goodness.

It was not a second after the words, "_Come in_!" had left her lips that the girl found herself being tugged forcibly into an extremely tight hug, as a cry of _"Alice!_" rang out across the room. She gasped as arms encircled her tightly, squeezing the air from her, yet she did not worry about who it may have been – if the flash of vibrant, orange hair as he had run at her and reached for her had not been enough, the texture of the jacket she was pressed tight against, and the scent which tickled her nostrils was certainly more than adequate. Forgetting herself for a moment, she wrapped her arms about his waist, burrowing her head into his shoulder – the thought that he had evidently been so concerned over her sudden disappearance (even if she had only been gone less than a day) warmed her far more than the coffee had. However, the embrace ended only too soon – reality crashed down on her, as Alice remembered just whose chest she was so tightly pressed to, and that everything was strictly, frustratingly, unchangingly platonic between them.

"Hatter, I can't breathe," she squeaked, and he jumped back abruptly.

"Terribly sorry," he replied cheerily, infallible grin in place as he studied Alice with curiousity. His eyes, thankfully a bright, incandescent green, contrasted starkly with the remainder of his attire; it looked as if he had simply pulled everything with splashes of colour out of his extensive wardrobe and thrown the outfit together with not a care for how it appeared afterward. However, knowing Tarrant, Alice thought there was probably a reason behind the apparent madness – he was not one known for sedate clothing choices, even when there was _not_ a large festival currently underway.

Silence reigned for a moment, and just as Alice had begun to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny, one hand crawling up to tug at the edge of her sleeve, and the other to toy with one of many curls that tumbled over her shoulder, Tarrant blurted, "Why did you leave?"

Ignoring the implied question of: _"Why did you leave without telling me?"_, Alice brightened instantly and merely plonked herself back down in the arm-chair, where as way of explanation she gestured with one hand to the now only slightly steaming cup of coffee in front of her, the tantalising smell wafting toward her. She grinned as Hatter's eyes fixed on the cup, watching as he realised that _this_ was the reason she had so abruptly vanished.

"Is that… tea?" he asked, nose wrinkling disdainfully at the smell. Alice fought the urge to roll her eyes at him. She opened her mouth to explain the wonders of the beverage before him, yet no sooner had she uttered the first syllable than Tarrant had mumbled something slightly incoherent about inferior tea and _ignorant girl_, roughly picked up the cup with one hand and drained the whole lot, ignoring the liquid that splashed over the sides, staining his clothes and her carefully polished table.

Alice gaped.

_My… coffee… _

In astonishment, she glanced from the eccentric man standing before her, to the _empty_ cup on the table, and back again. Empty! The cup was _empty_, where just moments ago, just mere _seconds_ ago, there had been gorgeous, hot, delicious, unobtainable –

"You _drank_ my _coffee_," she gasped incredulously, too stunned to be furious. The fact that she had bags of the stuff sequestered away seemed to have escaped her.

Hatter turned to her with an expression that was half confusion, half grimace. "Is that what it was?" he responded, blithely unaware of the horror Alice was currently experiencing. Alice spluttered, trying to remind herself that he couldn't have known what it was, as there was not a single place which produced coffee in all of Underland. Nor could he have known just how much she had missed the life-giving dark bean in her time away from London.

"Terrible stuff," the Hatter remarked, casting about for a glass of water as if to rid himself of the taste.

Alice froze.

_What?_

"You mean to tell me," she began, voice deathly calm as she rose from her position curled up in the arm-chair and strode towards him, "that not only did you drink all of my coffee, but you didn't even _like_ it?"

By this point, Tarrant had retrieved for himself a carefully cleaned glass – one of _her_ glasses, carefully cleaned _by her_, the person he'd just _stolen_ coffee from – and had filled it with water, to the point that it nearly was overflowing. The way he gulped the clear liquid down, it was as if he had never tasted anything sweeter. When he did not respond Alice repeated her question, now standing merely half a metre behind him.

Chugging down the last of the water and placing the glass down on her bench with an almighty _thump_, he turned and exclaimed, "Why, yes!"

Alice blinked, taking a small step back. She had only gotten angry with her crazed, lovable friend (_no, _she did not just use the word _lovable _to describe Tarrant Hightopp) a scant few times in the year she had been in Underland, and he had most certainly never reacted with grins and cheerfulness. She cleared her throat, unsure whether she was interpreting the situation correctly. As far as she was concerned, one did not respond with a wide, beaming grin when one was confronted about _stealing_, and then having the audacity to not even enjoy that which had been stolen!

"Pardon me?" she inquired, as politely and sweetly and she could muster.

The Hatter looked at her a moment, brows furrowed, as if he were not sure whether she had understood his words correctly. It was the sort of look one would bestow upon a very small, slow child, and it only served to infuriate the blonde coffee fanatic. However, the moment Tarrant began to speak, the grin was back, splitting his face from ear to ear. "It's absolutely awful," he stated emphatically, nodding to emphasise his words.

Alice's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Why any sane person would prefer such a horrible concoction when one has _tea_ available, I really cannot fathom, and for that matter, it's utterly beyond me as to why I made the assumption that it was tea in the cup, after all – I mean, no tea that I have ever brewed has _ever_ turned out with that positively wretched a smell, so are you sure you brewed it correctly, Alice?"

This was all said very fast, and with not a single breath taken in its midst. When he had finished, Tarrant blinked, demeanour faltering for a moment. However, he recovered just as quickly, and with a grin folded his hands politely in front of him, nodding to her as if encouraging her to explain the perplexing situation to him. The expression on his face was utterly bewildering.

However, Alice's only reply was to pout, cross her arms beneath her chest, and mutter, "You're a fine one to talk about what a sane person would do."

The Hatter seemed so put out that she would not take part in his mission to discover just why she would ever want to subject herself to something so "absolutely awful" that Alice nearly laughed. Nearly. She was, regrettably, still angry with him for his unforgivable offence, or perhaps she would have laughed and reassured him. But as it were, he would have to go without such reassurance, and he only had himself to blame. Alice nodded to herself. She was absolutely one-hundred percent right, of course, and there was no way that was overreacting to the situation in the slightest, or that the man before her did not actually deserve her anger.

Which he did, of course. Deserve her anger, that is.

In order to reignite her outrage, Alice glanced back down at the _empty_ cup sitting innocently on her table, surrounded by a brown stain that was the remnants of the only coffee which had not disappeared down Tarrant's throat. Though it may have worked and she had remembered exactly why she was angry, when Alice returned her gaze to where the thief had been a scant few seconds ago, he was nowhere to be seen. Exasperated, Alice cast about the room, only to find the man standing by her window, running his hands over the fabric of her curtains and muttering to himself excitedly, the wide grin having reasserted itself.

If Alice had been the type of girl to give in to melodrama and stamp her foot, there would have been much foot stamping done. However, Alice Kingsleigh was most certainly _not_ that kind of girl, so she settled for sighing angrily, narrowing her eyes, and seating herself with an indignant huff in her arm-chair, where she proceeded to sulk. Naturally, sulking was a far more refined activity than foot stamping.

However, Alice could not make her anger last much longer, as it gave in to absolute bewilderment and amusement as Tarrant scurried about the room, shouting things to her excitably as he appeared to make various discoveries about the different fabrics in her room. Fabrics in which there should have hardly been anything left for him _to_ discover, as he had helped choose all of the materials which formed the various aspects of her room, when she had first chosen her quarters, suitably close to the Queen's own, as befitting one of Mirana's friends and advisors. Seeming to have forgotten that his female companion had been furious moments earlier, the Hatter continued to excitedly call various titbits to her over his shoulder. In the face of such unashamed exuberance, Alice could not help but give in and laugh, as she realised what had happened.

As it had been the first cup of coffee she had been treated to in what seemed an inordinately long time, and as she was woefully inexperienced with not only the making of her own coffee but the newfangled invention of _instant_ coffee, the steaming cup had turned out rather strong. In any ordinary circumstances, Alice suspected there was rather a lot more caffeine in coffee than in tea… and there had been several teaspoons of ground coffee beans in the cup which Tarrant had drunk without pause, believing it foolishly to be something far sweeter. Alice's eyes widened slightly. That was certainly a _lot_ more substance than the poor man's body was probably used to. In a rapid change from her anger just moments before, Alice found giggles escaping her.

A shout and a crash brought her sharply from her thoughts, and Alice gasped as she saw that Tarrant had knocked a vase to the floor – it had shattered, sending pieces of china skittering across the carpeted ground. The shout had been a curse as he realised he had broken something of hers, yet he was now pacing restlessly, muttering things under his breath which sounded far darker than his previous demeanour, and Alice caught snatches of Outlandish and the Scottish brogue which he often slipped into when angry or caught up in his lurking madness.

With a cry she flung herself from the chair as she caught sight of his eyes, flickering dangerously between orange, yellow, and yellow-ish green. They changed constantly, never resting on one particular colour, progressing further and further toward the darker colours, frighteningly away from the light, vibrant green they had been only moments earlier.

"_Hatter_," Alice shouted, hoping to bring him out of such a dark place with the sound of his name.

He ignored her, continuing his pacing, an unending stream of thoughts tumbling from his lips, Outlandish and Scottish brogue blurring into one, his eyes a steady orange. Alice suddenly felt terribly, terribly guilty – apparently, such high levels of caffeine were _not_ a good thing, and she highly doubted whether her anger at his innocent mistake had helped matters at all. Reaching out, she gripped his arm tightly, spinning him around to face her. He fought her grip for a moment, yet she refused to budge, knowing that it could get dangerous for him if she did not manage to pull him out of it.

Sullenly, he grew still, but his eyes remained a dark, deep orange, and a scowl twisted his features. Alice realised her mouth had gone dry, and swallowed. He was still muttering darkly, the words pouring out, as if beyond his control. "Hatter," she pleaded. Tarrant ignored her, and she warily took one hand from his arm to place it on his cheek in a vain attempt to soothe him.

"Ye _left_," he spat. Alice blinked. "Ye _left_, and ye left no' because ye had to, but because ye couldna' stand to go another day without that bloody _coffee_, and ye didna' even _think_ about how the rest o' us might feel when ye just up and vanished with no warning – _nothing_."

Dumbfounded, Alice blindly searched for words to counter what he had just said – to placate him.

A look of confusion and disgust replaced the anger on his face for a moment. "It doesna' even _taste_ good. With all the things that Underland has to offer ye, and ye go off chasing something which doesna' even have any sort of advantage over anything we can offer ye whatsoever – is Underland not good enough for ye? Is that it?"

"Tarrant!" Alice tried, feeling hurt at his words yet refusing to relent.

"Is it no' enough for ye that I'm in love with ye, and have been since –"

Tarrant cut off, and there was a silence in which Alice dared not breathe, as she watched his eyes return to a pale green. The anger faded from his expression, to be replaced with a faint horror as what he had just yelled seemed to sink in. Alice felt his tense muscles relax under her grip, and let out her breath slowly, closing her eyes and calming herself. She refused to think about what he had just near screamed at her, yet it seemed to hang in the air, taunting them, and when she opened her eyes, she realised he had raced for the door, and even if he were calm, the situation was hardly any better.

With a slight growl of frustration, she rushed after him, and grabbed his shoulder. "_Wait_."

She heard him sigh, but he obeyed nonetheless. "So you're just going to go from one extreme to the other, then blurt something like that, and _leave_?"

Tarrant shrugged, and she could tell he was near pouting, even though his face was hidden from her. The parallel would have made her laugh had she not been filled with a sudden tumult of emotion.

"Not to mention, stealing my coffee."

He tensed. Alice laughed and rubbed his shoulder soothingly to soften her words and make him realise she was only joking. "I have bags of the stuff, don't worry. Plenty of resources for me to convert you to loving it."

"It's disgusting," he mumbled. "Tea is far better." However, she could tell he was calmer now. Alice laughed softly. At her slight push, he turned to face her, and she felt a small wave of relief wash over her. She offered him a grin, and cocked one eyebrow, hiding her uncertainty and the myriad of questions she really, really wanted to ask behind a façade of confidence – apparently, he was not quite so adept at hiding his emotions, for she could see plainly written in his eyes everything she was careful to hide under the surface.

"Tarrant," she said quietly, cupping his cheek as she had moments ago, before he had attempted to run. As if without thinking, he leaned into her hand.

He gave her a strangled smile. "I'm fine," he choked out, although it was not entirely convincing.

Alice swallowed when she realised just how close they were standing – his angry admission filled the silence that followed, and Alice began to worry her lower lip with her teeth. However, when he made to leave again, mumbling that he really had to go, that he had work to do, had promised Mirana a grand ensemble of a hat to outshine any she had ever worn, Alice made a snap decision. After all, if she was such a coward that she did not act quickly and decisively, she could hardly continue to lay claim to her muchness. Insistently, she gripped his shoulder with her free hand, halting his attempts to turn away, and, rising up on her tiptoes, pressed her lips to his own.

The kiss was short, sweet, and chaste.

They broke apart quickly; the moment was so fleeting that Alice was barely sure she had actually _done _it, yet she was reassured when she saw the look of absolute wonder adorning Tarrant's face, his eyes the lightest shade of green she had ever seen them, bordering almost on a pale blue. Swiftly, he pulled her to him in a tight embrace, arms encircling her – Alice wound her arms around his neck, fingers weaving into his thick, curly hair, stroking his neck with her thumb. He sighed contentedly, and she nuzzled his shoulder as his hand traced circles on her back.

After a moment, he pulled back, yet only enough so that he could send her a mischievous grin before capturing her lips with his once again. "You know," he mumbled in between kisses, "I have decided after giving it due thought, that this coffee business –" a pause, as he gave in and kissed her thoroughly – "isn't all that bad, after all."

Alice could not help but grin.

* * *

**A/N: **So, that took a really long time to update. o.o Sorry.

They may be a bit OoC, but I really hope not, although it has been a drattedly long time since I've seen the film.

Also: I'm getting really annoyed at how much this website eats my formatting. I can't even have curvy apostrophes and quotation marks. NOPE, they must ALL be straight and ugly. -sad face-

ANYWAY, hopefully the wait won't be so long until the next one. Reviews are greatly appreciated. :3

Much love,

Naranne.


	4. D: Dreams

**Prompt:** Dreams.

**Rating: **Strong PG-13.

**Warnings: **Angst, some horror themes, some parts are slightly gruesome.

**Length:** 4,476 words.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Alice in Wonderland (2010). This is a work of _fan-fiction_.

* * *

****

**_Dreams_**

_By Naranne_

* * *

_The first thing she sees is the doorway. _

_The first thing she feels is a sense of utter terror, and a horrible feeling that someone – or something – is watching her. _

_Somehow, she knows she somewhere in __London__, but she has never been there before, and does not know where in the city she is. _

_She is standing in the middle of the pavement, yet there is no street to be seen – beyond her is simply grass, stretching onward and onward as far as the eye can see, should she have chosen to turn her head. She does not. She is fixated by the sight in front of her, but she does not know what it is about it that enthrals her so. _

_It is not a fancy door – it is slim, of an unremarkable make and colour, and beside it rises the remainder of its building, a white monolith stretching skyward. She risks a glance upward. Above her, the sky is in turmoil; turbulent, dark storm-clouds swirl endlessly, restlessly, chaotically against a blood-red canvas._

_Neither is the door unique, being merely one of many stretching from left to right as far as she can see – she does not know what purpose the buildings lining the faux street serve, and it does not seem to matter. She takes a step forward, and several things happen all at once. _

_The world seems to spin, and the ground trembles violently. She is thrown forward, colliding with the smooth surface of the door; the force with which she is hurled at it should have been enough to cause bruises to bloom and the door itself to splinter, yet neither of these things happens. In the distance, she hears a rush of heavy footsteps, and a gun being fired – it is a sound she has not heard in a long time, but it is one she recognises instantly nonetheless. _

_Another shot, and another, in quick succession. _

_The hurried footfalls cease for a moment, and then pick up again, far slower this time, and quieter, surer. Somehow, she knows the source is far away: she has time to get through, to get away, but fear grips her mercilessly regardless– there is only one pair of footsteps now, and she does not have to think long to know what happened to the rest. With sweaty, clammy hands, she grapples at the doorknob, but it will not turn. The door is locked. _

_The world spins again, more forcefully this time. She collapses to the ground, landing on her hands to prevent her head from colliding with the unrelenting concrete that grazes her palms and knees. She spits out a mouthful of hair, and snatches a glance outward, for the footfalls have ceased entirely. _

_In horror she realises there is a dark, tall figure coming toward her from the grass. She tries desperately to pick herself up and force her way through the door – and for the first time, realises what she is wearing. _

_The corset is tight, oh so tight, and as she staggers to her feet she feels it constrict, squeezing her stomach and her lungs, squeezing the life from her. She takes great gulps of air as she wavers on her feet, for suddenly she cannot get enough. Spots of light dance before her eyes, bright and dark, colours and swirling patterns. Her head swims. _

_Sweaty hands clamour for a purchase on the doorknob, but to no avail. A horrible feeling of trepidation steals over her, and with deliberate, aching slowness, she turns, and freezes. The figure is closer, yet the light which illuminates everything else around her with such clarity does not touch him – he is but a silhouette, dark, menacing, threatening. He stops, and cocks his head to the side, as if evaluating her with a calculating, piercing gaze from eyes she cannot see. She wants to run – _needs to run _– but she is frozen, muscles refusing to obey. _

_He raises an arm, and the light catches only one part of him – his hand, gripped surely around a gun, finger poised on the trigger. The moment seems to last forever, as the thimble-tipped trigger finger slowly exerts pressure, and he finally fires. _

_Alice__ screams. _

* * *

It is the eve of the Frabjous Day, and Tarrant Hightopp is restless.

His bare feet wear an incessant pattern into the carpeted floor as he paces to and fro, muttering to himself under his breath. He is filled with a tumult of emotions – a black joy that the day is finally at hand, worry that a Champion will not step forth, disappointment for the one that was meant to fill the Champion's role, anxiety. He knows that they cannot force Alice to take up the mantle of Champion, yet at the same time, the eerie image of the Oraculum swims before him…

Sighing and ceasing his pacing, he runs bandaged fingers through frizzy, untamed hair, wincing slightly and clicking his tongue when his thimble gets caught in a wayward curl. His top hat is resting on the bed-side table, yet he keeps an eye on it just in case (it would not do for Chessur to attempt to steal the _sweet hat_, not at all). He takes deep, calming breaths and mentally chastises himself – he must be fully rested for tomorrow, and worrying is not accomplishing anything.

However, just as he walks over to his bed, he hears a shout of, "_No, please!_" from other set of guest rooms joined to his own, the sound muffled. His eyes widen, and he rushes to press an ear to the wall. He hears a cry of distress, and another.

The Hatter's blood runs cold.

_Alice__._

* * *

_She is caught amidst a great group of people ploughing relentlessly onward down a steep, seemingly endless hill, the harsh, mid-day sun beating down upon their backs. Their destination looms in the distance – a great, grand collection of buildings, old and prestigious, flags undulating atop spires although there is not a breath of wind to be found. It dimly registers in the back of her mind that it is a school, and the people marching there are students – as if triggered by this realisation, the clothes of each and every person become identical, sharp reds and blacks standing out against the lush, green fields that surround them. She is the only one to wear something different; her sky-blue dress is incredibly out of place, and although she is not questioned, she feels multitudes of curious eyes on her, and fights down an increasing feeling of unease._

_There is a unanimous sense of purpose about them, and as she glances about her, familiar faces start materialising among the crowd. To her left, Lady Ascot strides with confidence, her aristocratic arrogance blending in perfectly with the crowd; a glance behind her tells her that her mother has joined them, her clothes, like her daughter's, separating her from the remainder of the body, though her flowing, blood-red gown is as different to Alice's simple blue dress as is possible, the black hearts embroidered on its hem harshly unnerving. However, the only one __Alice__ pays any attention to is her sister, walking directly in front of her, her adulterous husband nowhere to be seen._

_With quick steps she catches up to the older girl, running fingers over the huge, ostentatious red bow which fits snugly in place at the end of Margaret's intricate braid. Pushing down a sudden feeling from deep within her that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, Alice opens her mouth to speak, and assures her sister confidently, "She will like that. It is so very large and vibrant."_

_Margaret turns over her shoulder, and with a wide, pleased grin, replies, "Thank-you. I do hope so."_

_Something within her gags and cries out, although outwardly she returns her sister's smile with a nod. It is as if she encompasses two different people, one outraged and horrified at what is taking place, and one perfectly accepting, unable to understand the disgust of the other, yet giving it no more thought than is necessary. _

_They trudge onward, inward-Alice screaming and crying that they must not go any further, outward-Alice marching along complacently with the crowd, perfectly happy with the current situation. She glances to the side of the road, and what she sees causes her step to falter. A small, iron post has been erected, and chained to its cruel, hooked tip, is a tiny figure which both Alices recognise instantly. Mallymkun's eyes are closed, her clothing ragged, and her famous hatpin is nowhere to be seen. Her breathing is very shallow and rapid, the pulse beating in her neck weak. The fire both Alices remember her for has left her – inward-Alice recoils and tries to move to free her, but outward-Alice merely notes with a calm detachment that the mouse has little time left and continues walking, ignoring the furious protests from deep inside of her. _

_The scene changes suddenly. The buildings are much closer now, and people are starting to pass through enormous gates of wrought iron, decoration twirling in intricate designs, coming together to form a large heart at the gates' pinnacle. Grim-faced guards stand either side of the gate, watching everyone with suspicious eyes as they pass, some gazing up in wonder at the sight surrounding them. Walls rise up, encircling the school – distantly, outward-Alice wonders who it was they were built to keep out, or who it was the students needed protection from. Inward-Alice snaps that they were not built to keep people out, but to keep them in, before dissolving into cries of unease and shouts of distress. _

_She stops, the crowd parting around her and flowing onward, not giving her a moment's thought or a sparing her a glance. One of the guards eyes her curiously, yet she does not notice. Of their own accord, her eyes are travelling upward, to admire the extravagant spires._

_However, what she sees is far from something to be admired, and her hands fly to her mouth as she gasps. In an instant, both __Alices__ fuse into one again, united by their horror; she takes a step back, faltering. Impaled on a thin, cruel spike amongst those undulating red and black flags is the body of the White Queen. Fresh, warm blood stains her once pristine white dress a dark, dark red and mats her long, flowing curls._

_Alice cries out, falling to her knees in despair, unable to tear her eyes from the gruesome sight before her. _

_Through the legs of the mindless crowd she can make out a grotesque, golden statue of a bulbous head that takes up the entire centre of the courtyard, the crown topping it gleaming in the sunlight as if to mock her. As she forces her eyes tightly closed, realisation hitting her, three words repeat themselves over and over in her head like a mantra…_

I did this… I did this… I did this…

* * *

A loud, persistent knocking on the door to her rooms startles Mirana of Marmoreal from sleep, and with a gasp, she sits bolt upright in bed, taking deep, calming breaths to rid herself of her momentary fright. The knock at the door sounds again, louder and more urgent this time. With a slight sigh of exasperation, Mirana rolls out of bed, wrapping herself in a jacket to make herself more presentable – and to fight the slight chill, something she had not noticed when wrapped up in her blankets.

Even at this late hour, she manages to stride elegantly to the door. She fumbles with the key for a moment, sighing at the fact that a lock was considered a necessity, even in Marmoreal itself. The sight that meets her eyes when she finally opens the door is something she is not expecting – the Hatter stands before her, eyes wide, green with mere flecks of yellow, fist raised to knock urgently on her door. Again.

She blinks. He is distraught, rocking back and forth slightly on his feet. A grin born of what appears to be relief spreads across his face at seeing her, and, slightly bewildered, Mirana gently allows him in.

"What is it, Tarrant?" she presses, once she has him seated with a glass of clean water in hand.

He sips before answering, and when he does, his words come out all at once. "Alice—worried for her—shouts from her room—we shouldn't have done this, forced this on her, 'tis our fault, yes, our fault, but she is distressed we have to see if she is alright, see if—_I need ye to give me the key_—"

"Tarrant."

He blinks at her in confusion, as if noticing her for the first time. "I'm fine," he chokes.

All traces of sleepiness and exasperation now gone, concern grips Mirana, and she realises that perhaps the shouts she had heard were not figments of her imagination, part of a mere dream, after all.

She looks her friend straight in his mad, worried eyes. "What has happened to Alice?" Her voice is firm, unshakeable. "Tell me now."

* * *

_She is lying down, she realises, as she blinks groggy eyes. A bed, yes – but it is not hers. It is not a familiar bed. It is hard, and cold – oh so cold – and she has not a stitch on, yet there are blankets on the bed, and the brief thought of why she had not covered herself with them earlier is lost as she scrambles to reach for them and pull them over her. The rough material scratches her skin, but it is some warmth, at least, and she savours it, shivering, waiting for her natural warmth to return to her. She glances down at her body, underneath the wool, and realises there are bruises there – a myriad of different hues cover parts of her skin. She cannot remember how she got them, and it does not seem to matter._

Where am I? How did I get here?_  
A quick glance around tells her she is tucked into the corner of a large room; behind the bed, there is a stairwell, leading downward, yet a locked gate bars the way; the carpet covering the floor is rough and thin, but spotless. Beyond the stairwell, the room extends some way, yet she is its only occupant. An old, dull chandelier hangs from the ceiling in the room's centre. A feeling of hopelessness steals over her. She shudders, but it is not from the cold, this time. _

_She tries to wrap the blanket around herself in a crude imitation of a dress so that she can get up, can move off the bed, can get out of there, for suddenly she realises that it is the last place she wants to be. There is menace hanging in the air, silent, foreboding. In vain, she tries to move, to get away, but her muscles are frozen and refuse to respond._

I am trapped.

_Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she wills herself not to cry. She will get out; she knows there must be a way out –_

_Voices. She hears voices, voices she recognises, at that. _

_Her eyes fly open, and she looks to the source, to her left – a row of five chairs has materialised, and on them are seated people she knows, people she trusts. Only one chair is empty. _

They were not there before. Something is wrong – I have to get out – Perhaps they will help me?

_She opens her mouth to speak, to ask them for help, ask them which way it is to get out, yet she recoils when she gets a chance to look at them properly, and instantly she knows that for all they are friends and family, they will not help her. They do not even look at her, conversing amongst themselves. She cannot make out anything they are saying, yet she instinctively knows that whatever it is, it does not bode well for her. _

_She bites her lips, chokes back a sob. She is alone. Alone, and trapped. _

_Running her eyes up and down the row of chairs, she takes note of each individual seated before her. Lord Ascot, Mirana, the Hatter, her mother – an odd, unnatural blend of universes and worlds, yet there is a sense of dreadful unity about them. The one empty seat is between the Hatter and her mother, and briefly she wonders why it has not been filled. _

_She glances at the Hatter, and realises he is deep in conversation with Mirana. His eyes are hidden from her._

Help me. Hatter, please…

_Curling up into a ball, she pulls her legs to her chest and hugs them to her, burying her head in her knees, her eyes tightly closed. Rocking herself back and forth, she reminds herself that she is strong, stronger than this. She would find a way out, she would not cry, she would not –_

What's going on… what's going on… why won't they help me?

_There is a high pitched laugh which she recognises instantly, and she lifts her head up enough to see what has changed, for its owner was not there before. Surely enough, seated in the empty chair between the Hatter and Helen Kingsleigh is Iracebeth of Crims. Bile rises in her throat, and if the group was unnatural before, it is made even more so now, as Mirana greets Iracebeth with a kind word and a nod. She shakes her head, not believing what is happening, what she is seeing._

_The Red Queen reaches into a pocket of the coat she is wearing, and to each of the other four people, hands a knife – each one is different, some serrated, some curved, some larger than others. She scrambles backward, pressing up against the wall as if she would disappear, melt into it, pressing herself into the corner furthest from the terrifying quintet, pulling the blanket tighter around her. _

No, no, no, no…

_She watches in utter horror as each examines the knife given to them, nodding and thanking Iracebeth for her thoughtfulness in bringing them. Each knife is clean, yet somehow she knows that each has been used to draw blood before – blood of her friends – blood of innocents – _

_"There's another knife in that one, isn't there?" her mother remarks casually, pointing to the handle of the large, serrated blade in the hands of the Hatter. _

_"Why, yes, I do believe there is," he replies, pushing a dent on the wooden handle, and extricating another, smaller, knife, a flat blade with no handle. The light reflects off its silver surface, giving it a wicked gleam. "Thank-you, Helen."_

_She shakes her head furiously, refusing to believe what she is seeing. The Hatter looks up at her curiously, as if evaluating her. For the first time, she sees his eyes, and an absolute, blood-curdling fear takes hold. _

_They are black._

_She opens her mouth to scream, yet though her throat is chafed raw by her efforts, no sound escapes. Silent sobs rack her body. He laughs, a cold, chilling sound that raises the hair on the back of her neck. He grins madly, his fingers dancing up the length of the blade, spots of blood staining the carpet. _

No, Hatter – Hatter, please, no –

_Suddenly, there is a tremendous crash from her left, and her head whips around to the source of the sound. Barking and howling, Bayard has broken down the gate blocking the stairwell, and for a moment, she is not sure whether to feel relief or whether he has come to join the grisly five before her. Mallymkun rides atop him, gripping his collar with one hand, hatpin held aloft in the other. As they charge toward the others, the mouse lets loose a fierce cry, combining with the angry growls and barks of the bloodhound. _

_The five dissipate, vanishing into thin air, wisps of smoke all that is left of them, tendrils curling and weaving behind the two animals who were her saviours. _

_As one, Bayard and Mallymkun turn to regard her. She knows she should thank them, yet as she opens her mouth to do so, her eyes roll backward in her head, and she passes out. _

Thank-you…

* * *

The moment the door has been opened, Tarrant charges into Alice's rooms, leaving Mirana standing guard by the doorway, all thoughts of propriety gone. The sight that greets him causes him to cry out in consternation: Alice thrashes in her bed, blankets tangled around her legs, her brow soaked with sweat. She cries out, flinging her hands in front of her as if to defend herself. From what inner demon, he can only guess.

"_Alice__!_" he shouts, rushing to her bed-side, wringing his hands. "Alice, _wake up_!" She moans, tossing and turning.

"_Wake up, ye silly lass, wake up_!" he growls, kneeling beside the bed and casting a helpless look over his shoulder to Mirana. She comes immediately to his side, placing a gentle hand upon Alice's sweat-soaked brow. The Queen frowns, eyes closed in concentration a moment.

"She is caught in a nightmare," Mirana tells him, expression calm yet tinged with worry. "It is nothing serious. Do your best to wake her, Tarrant, but be gentle. I'll return with something to ensure she sleeps the rest of the night dreamlessly."

He is dimly aware of the sound of the door closing behind the Queen as she leaves, but his attention is returned wholly to the girl in front of him as she thrashes again, moaning in distress. He reaches out a hand to her arm, rubbing her skin lightly, trying to calm her, trying not to grow too distraught at the helpless sight in front of him. His touch seems to soothe her, and the Hatter breathes a sigh of relief as she lies still.

"Alice!" he tries. "Alice, wake up, please."

_Ye canna' do this now, ye silly girl… please, wake up…_

Her eyes flicker open, and he feels a hopeful grin begin to stretch across his face, before she squeezes them tightly shut again, her face screwed in up in distress. "NO!" she shouts desperately. "Please—no! – Leave me _alone_!"

Her pained cries tug at his heart, and he clambers onto the bed next to her, gripping her shoulders, shaking her in a last attempt to wake her before Mirana returns. "It was only a dream, Alice, please," he murmurs, stroking her sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead. "Wake up… wake up… it's not real, it canna' hurt you…"

She stirs, and mumbles something, yet she seems more at peace. The Hatter lets out a breath he did not realise he had been holding. Warily he watches her, waiting to see if she has heard him, or if she will tumble back into her nightmares. A long moment of silence ensues, where she is still, to all appearances sleeping peacefully, yet he is loathe to leave her. What if she fell back into her personal horror whilst he was gone?

However, her eyes slowly flicker open, and he grins.

"Welcome back, Alice," he says softly, knowing he should leave now that she is waking. He reasons that he should at least wait for Mirana to return, and decides to stay by her side to make sure she is alright, and to ensure that once she falls back asleep, it is peaceful and free of terror. Removing his hand from her brow, he keeps one on her arm in what he hopes is a soothing manner, and watches warily as she blinks in confusion and looks around.

The moment she seems him, her eyes widen.

Inexplicably, she screams, pushing him away from her violently – he tumbles backward, landing forcefully on the cold floor. She scrambles backward, pressing herself against the far wall and shaking her head fervently, putting as much distance between them as possible. Alice squeezes her eyes shut tightly, and he can see her mumble, "_No, no, no, no…_" even if he cannot hear it.

Picking himself up, Tarrant tries desperately to comprehend what has just happened, and valiantly refuses to be angry with her. Instead of anger, worry clenches mercilessly around his heart – what could she possibly have dreamt that would cause her to react so terribly to his presence? His heart breaks for her as he hears her start to sob. Picking himself up off the floor, he makes his way over to her slowly.

"It's me, Alice," he murmurs, trying for the tenderest tone he can muster. "It was just a dream, and it's over now. You're awake."

Tarrant stops a few feet from her, watching as Alice looks up at him, the fear slowly fading from her red-rimmed eyes, frightened tears still spilling over. Tentatively, he steps closer, reaching out a hand to her. She flinches, eyeing him cautiously. He cups her cheek with one hand, mirroring her efforts to calm him in Salazen Grum, and whispers, "Alice, why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Alice's eyes widen slightly, and with a sob, she replies brokenly, "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise. Nightmares can often do funny things to one head, you know." A rueful smile crosses his face. "A bit like being mad does funny things to one's head."

"You must think I've lost my muchness again."

"Not at all," he responds confidently. "After all, without fear, there would be no need for courage."

She gives him a tearful smile and thanks him softly, and suddenly his arms are full of Alice as she cries out the last of her tears into his shoulder, seeking comfort to drive away the darkness of her nightmare. Murmuring to her the same soft, comforting words that he remembers his mother whispering to him as a child after a bad dream had tormented him, he wraps his arms around her tightly, smoothing her hair with one hand.

"Stay with me," she mumbles, so quietly that he is not sure he has heard her. However, the slight remnants of her fear in her voice are enough that he does not pause before assuring her that he will, keenly, keenly aware of what tomorrow holds for both of them, whether she chooses to accept the mantle of Champion or not.

From the doorway, Mirana watches the scene unfold, tonic in hand. However, she chooses not to interrupt, quietly placing the small glass bottle on a chair a few feet into the room, before leaving the room, giving the Hatter and her would-be Champion some peace before the sure chaos of the day to come. Closing the door softly behind her, a small smile persists about the lips of the White Queen as she seeks her own bed, satisfied that Alice is in safe hands, and that she will not be troubled by nightmares again that night, tonic or no.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, um. That was weird.

Sorry if they're out of character, or for typos, etc.

Until next time,

Naranne

P.S. I will finish this fic here. After that, unless this site fixes itself, I will be on LiveJournal.


	5. E: Empty

**Prompt:** Empty.  
**Rating: **T.  
**Warnings: **Lots and lots of angst. Also, experimentation with writing styles, so flow may be wonky. (And a slight fluff warning for the ending. I'm not _totally_ heartless and sadistic, just mostly. I'll have to make it up to the characters later.)  
**Genre: **Angst/hurt/comfort/fluff. X3  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own Alice in Wonderland (2010). This is a work of _fan-fiction_.

* * *

**Empty**

_By Naranne_

_

* * *

_

"_You could stay…"_

The words ring inside your head, the last utterance of your hopes in the calm after that monstrous battle. Naïve hopes, the cynical side of your brain reminds you. She has done what she needed to. There is nothing left for her here.

Yet as she paused, that horrible, disgusting, whisk-her-away from you _take-her-away_ from you vial in her hands, you had thought that perhaps, just perhaps—

You knew that your face had spread into the slightest of grins, that there had been those hopes glimmering in your eyes, plain for her to see. And when she'd smiled at you, that right-proper-Alice smile on her right-proper-Alice sized lips which sparkled in her captivating Alice-eyes—_stop_—

The admonition is harsh, and for a moment you're not quite sure where it comes from. Of their own accord, bandaged, thimble-clad hands make their way into your hair and tangle there, pulling, tugging, and you sink the floor, with enough force that even though the carpet is soft, a small amount of pain jolts up through your knees. It's there for a moment, and then it is disregarded, as—

"_What an idea… a crazy, mad, wonderful idea…"_

Her voice is there, taunting you, tempting you, like _she_ did, the words tumbling out as if she was not aware what she was saying, as if she did not _know_ what she was _doing_ _to you_. You cannot help the image that flashes through your clouded mind, clear as day: her bright, smiling face before you, and the life that _she _and _you_ could have had as she seemed to have promised to _stay_—

_Alice, stay with me_. _Please, Alice—_

You see, as if you were reliving it, her smile fade. You feel your heart clench within you, painfully, constricting, binding, tight, squeezing. Somehow, with that awful feeling of dread and the dangerous lure of madness that always _lurks_ and you _must not let it out_, with that intuition that you know you have when it comes to her and her alone, you know what she is going to say before the poisonous words escape her lips.

"_But I can't_._"_

It would have been oh so easy to succumb to the darkness awakened by that one statement – you had seen it in her eyes, knew she was lying, she must want to stay, _she must_. It would have been oh so easy to succumb, and keep her there. Rip the vial from her hands and shatter it into a thousand pieces, like she was doing to you then and there with her words.

But there was uncertainty in her eyes, and it gave you hope.

"_There are questions I have to answer… things I have to do."_

_Yes, there are_, you wanted to tell her. _Here, in Underland – so many things to see, to learn, to feel—_

Instead, you watched, cowardly, unwilling to force her to stay yet unwilling to let her leave. She had lifted the vial to her lips. You watched her swallow, watched it go down, and you said nothing. Now, you kneel on the floor of your rooms in Marmoreal, moaning, and bite down on your knuckles to keep yourself from crying out. You won't break down. You won't let yourself.

Not again.

"_I'll be back again before you know it."_

Empty words. Oh, how foolish you had been – you wanted, so, so desperately, preciously badly to believe her, and you did, and – and then, and then – what?

You wanted to plead with her, to let her see, that she did not have to choose to return Above, that she could stay, and she would be _happy_ – had she not seen? Yet, she had already supped of the vial, viscous fluid in the purple vial, and you knew that there was no turning back for her.

There were so many things you wanted to say.

Instead, all you could manage was one feeble sentence, shaking your head in sorrow as you voiced the doubts rampaging through your skull.

"_You won't remember me."_

You had felt the tears burning at the back of your eyes, but damn it _all_ you would not cry in front of her, you had to be strong, her support, her guidance, but you knew, you knew that it would all come to naught and that it would be as it was every time. She would forget. It would all appear as a dream to her. You knew you would soon mean nothing.

You rock yourself back and forth on the hard, unforgiving floor, helpless to drive away the memory that haunts your every moment.

"_Of course I will – how could I forget?"_

There was such conviction ringing through her voice that you believed her, as you so desperately wanted to believe that she would come back to you, come back for you, yet now you are sure that you merely imagined it. The stab of hope you felt piercing your heart had been replaced by hollowness. Emptiness. And the madness, lurking, always there, always waiting to consume you.

"_Hatter."_

You drank up her voice like water, the last few, scarce droplets.

"_Why is a raven like a writing desk?"_

Bittersweet.

Despite yourself, you'd felt yourself smiling, at the shared moment that was only for the two of you alone – that she still was there, in front of you, and you had felt such a swell in your chest at the time, even though you had been quite befuddled as to the cause, and had only realised it was _her_ later, when alone. _Alone_.

"_Haven't the slightest idea."_

She had smiled, then, the same heartfelt, heartbreaking smile that she had given you when you had arrived at Marmoreal, in numerous shared moments, the smile that made you feel like for just that one instance, you were the only one that mattered to her, the only one she was thinking about, the only—

You grip your hair tighter, almost painfully tight, and a sob is stifled by your teeth on your knuckles, the faintest tang of blood reaching your tongue. _Alice – oh, Alice_…

The memory plays relentlessly onward, though you would give anything to avoid reliving the last few moments. The last moments of her in your life.

You had not dared to touch her, though every nerve in your body had been screaming out for you to take her by the arm, the hand, to pull her close and _never let her go_. To hold her, wrap your fingers in her hair, keep her close, keep her with you, keep her safe, keep her there, where she belonged.

But no – you had been too frightened. Too terrified that if her felt her in your arms, the overwhelming need to have her there with you, to keep from leaving, would draw you in to what lurked, and you would hurt her, you would do something – she had drank of the blood, and what could you have done against such magic?

So instead, you hovered close, as torturingly close as you could without having her in your arms, and whispered your farewell into her ear, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.

"_Fairfarren, Alice."_

And then—

Swirling mist, she's gone, she's _leaving you_—

_Alice!_

The sobs finally break free, and you clap a hand over your mouth, shaking your head furiously.

_She's gone, she left, she's not coming back, she broke her promise, there's nothing left for her here, she had done what she needed to do not coming back left she has gone she left you notgoodenough for her she doesnotneedwantfeelneedyou—_

You don't realise that you have stood up and begun pacing and that it has _taken you_ until the sound of the door slamming open and someone sternly, but kindly, calling your name with an undeniable ring of authority breaks you out of your reverie. It is a mix that belongs to no one else bar Mirana, and you blink, endeavouring to clear away the fog, as you wonder why she has come. Usually, Her Majesty is wise enough to leave you alone.

You are about to turn and inquire – and thank her, in your own way, for bringing you down from _that place_ – when another voice steals your attention, and you freeze.

"Hatter?"

You groan through clenched teeth, and squeeze your eyes shut tightly.

There is no way – you know you are dreaming, now, possibly, or worse – the memory usually has _stopped_ by now, surely you will not relive it again, not so soon –

The sound of a throat being cleared.

You take a deep, calming breath, convince yourself that you are imagining things, and that soon it will all go away, go back to how it always is.

It doesn't.

"Tarrant?"

The voice is tentative now, unsure of your lack of response.

Ashamedly, you swipe with the back of your hand at your wet cheeks, assuring yourself that you cannot possibly be dreaming. In your dreams, in your memories, she always calls you _Hatter_.

You don't dare to hope, knowing all too well where that landed you the last time, but against every better instinct, you turn, slowly, as if taking it step by small step will ensure that it does not vanish. Not _again._

Please, _not again_.

Footsteps. One, two, three – coming closer to you, cautiously.

Taking a deep, calming breath, you open your eyes.

For a moment, you cannot believe what you are seeing. You rake your eyes up and down, almost hungrily, devouring every detail, locking it in place, affirming it with your memory, almost unwilling to believe that what you are seeing is real, terrified that it is all a hallucination of your exhausted, empty mind. The curls, the beseeching eyes, her stance, her right-proper size, the slight quirk of her brow as she waits for your response, the faint scarring on her right arm, the slight smell of sea air and the smile.

_Her smile. _The smile that is _yours_ and _yours only_.

You blink. Once, twice, three times.

She reaches out a hand, and warily, your eyes snap to her fingers, watching as they come closer to you, desperately wanting her to be _real, to be here_, yet terrified that it will still prove to be an illusion, a _figment of your imagination._ A _dream_. Then her palm comes to rest on your cheek, and gently, tenderly, she brushes away the last remnant of wetness with the pad of her thumb, her smile widening and her eyes glistening, and with that one touch, your doubts and fears and worries shatter.

_She is here_.

_She came back_.

You're not sure how it happens, but suddenly your arms are full of Alice, and you're clutching her to chest as if your very life depends on it, arms tight around her waist and face buried in her shoulder, marvelling at the way she _fits_. She gives one small start of surprise and then her arms lock around your neck and the fingers of one of her hands are threading in your hair, holding you just as tightly as you hold her, in an embrace that defies words. You mumble incoherently against the small patch of exposed skin on her shoulder, and reach a bandaged hand to stroke her hair, calming yourself, reassuring yourself that no dream ever felt this _real_. Of their own accord, a few tears of pure relief leak out from beneath your lids; she squeezes you to her, tightening her grip and pressing her face into your neck. You can feel her lashes against your skin as she blinks, feel her warm breath, steady, full of life.

You can't remember how long you stand there, holding her to you, but she makes no move to pull away, and you'll be damned if you let her go now that she _has come back_.

Your thoughts tumble out of your lips without conscious thought. "I've missed you, Alice," you find yourself mumbling, and then suddenly wonder if that was the wrong thing to have said, for she laughs softly.

"I promised you I'd come back."

"I didn't think you would remember me."

The hand tangled in your hair moves to stroke your neck soothingly. You tremble. When she answers, it is so soft that you are almost sure you've dreamed it up. "How could I forget you?" she breathes. It tickles your skin. "Really, Hatter." There is a slight sense of playfulness in her voice, and it brings the beginnings of a gentle grin to your face, unbidden. "You mean far too much to me for that."

She pulls away a little, and worry shoots through you for a moment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it had come, as she brushes a stray strand of hair out of your eyes, smiles. Alice dips her head, drops a feather-light kiss on your cheek; it's the merest brushing of lips on skin, but nonetheless you freeze, your heart thudding wildly in your chest and the gentle grin widening rapidly to split your face in two.

You hear the sound of a door softly closing, but you take no notice.

She's here – she's _back_, she's _finally returned to Underland_, and she came down the rabbit hole for _you_.

Alice has returned.

And the darkness has gone.

* * *

**A/N:** Also found on my LiveJournal, which is updated sooner than here. (:

Naranne x


	6. F: Futterwhacken

**Prompt:** Futterwhacken.**  
Rating: **K.**  
Warnings: **None. **  
Length:** 723 words. Um.  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Alice in Wonderland (2010)_. This is a work of _fan-fiction_.

* * *

_**Futterwhacken** _

_By Naranne_

_

* * *

_"The groove! You're not _feeling the groove_!"

It took every ounce of Alice's not inconsiderable self-restraint not to _show_ the insufferably bouncy man clicking his fingers incessantly whilst he danced before the gathered crowd exactly what she thought of his _groove_. Beside her, Tarrant grinned from ear to ear and bopped in time to the music that was blaring loudly from who-knew-where – Alice couldn't see the thing that was creating the noise, but she could definitely hear it; she supposed something, somewhere, had been enchanted to be _loud_. And to think she'd thought when she had first heard the words from Tarrant's lips that this would be a good idea.

The first anniversary of Mirana's coronation (re-coronation, Alice supposed, for it was the anniversary of the Frabjous Day, when she had won the crown from Iracebeth… or rather, the one day of the year that was not her un-coronation, as Tarrant had patiently explained to Alice) was fast approaching, and so the various usual guests of the tea party had convened to decide exactly how the celebrations would progress. It had taken no small amount of time – devoid of any actual planning, and filled with much scone throwing and place changing – for Mally to suggest that, as a grand show, Tarrant teach them all how to _Futterwhacken_. Alice had promptly gaped and wondered how on earth – on Underland, she had nearly corrected herself, but then realised that did not quite sound right, and proceeded to decide that Underland must be at the very least a subsidy of Earth, before giving up the thought completely and letting the figure of speech stand as it was – they were to learn to dance like _that_ when Tarrant had abruptly stood, nearly knocking over the tea table and causing Thackery to giggle nervously, and announced that he would _hire_ someone to assist him.

Privately, Tarrant had admitted to Alice that there was only one person in all of Underland who could Futterwhacken better than Tarrant himself.

When that person had walked into Marmoreal, Alice had almost believed it.

Now, however, she was of a different mind, as the lean man in front of the assembled crowd bopped and ducked and tapped and weaved and clicked and twirled and generally _drove her mad_. Now, he was on about something which sounded like _two and four_ and Alice could barely stand to hear a word of it. From atop their instructor's head, Chessur grinned at them all sadistically and swatted the man with his tail. Their "teacher" didn't so much as bat an eyelid, before waving his hands in the air dramatically and telling them all to _stop_, for he felt that they should have a break, and that when they came back, he would see how they all had progressed – by getting them to dance _individually_.

* * *

Under her breath, Alice muttered something decidedly foul and Outlandish, whilst beside her, Tarrant continued to grin like the lovable idiot he was.

It was entirely silly to be feeling nervous because some jumped-up fidgety Futterwhacken-ing man wanted her to dance. She could not understand how they could possibly be expected to learn something like that, anyway, and –

_Oh_.

It was her turn.

Alice did her best, trying to channel her memories of Tarrant on the Frabjous Day. Rather pleased when she finished – she'd gotten the last little twirl and tiny bow, right, after all, wasn't that _something_, at least? – she felt a bit crestfallen and more than a little antsy when he simply shook his head, and walked away, calling over his shoulder to her words like _groove_ and _rhythm_ and _feel._

Apparently, she had not gotten it right.

Naturally, Tarrant pulled it off spectacularly, and the man grinned at him – never ceasing his infernal bopping, mind you – complimenting him on his _stylistic _approach.

Alice scowled.

* * *

Despite her qualms, when the evening arrived, it went nothing short of spectacular. Head full of_ groove_, _two and four_, _rhythm_, and _style_, Alice tried her hardest, and felt that the Futterwhacken was certainly far harder to master than a measly _Jabberwocky_. Nonetheless, when Tarrant bent her back dramatically in front of the entire assembled crowd, and, his foot still tapping out the beat, melted her with an earth-shattering kiss, Alice felt that it might, perhaps, have been worth it.

* * *

**A/N: **Er. Yeah. Find it at my LJ, too~

Next time it will be better, or something.

Naranne


	7. G: Gratitude

**Prompt****:** Gratitude.  
**Rating: **G.  
**Warnings: **None.  
**Length:** 1,623 words.  
**  
Disclaimer: **I do not own _Alice in Wonderland (2010)_.

* * *

_**Gratitude**_

_by Naranne_

_

* * *

_Alice had always wanted a bird, and yet, she had never possessed the heart to cage one.

Gazing out the windows of the Kingsleigh residence, she would put her chin in her hands and let her mind wander. Perhaps a flock of crows would drift past, cawing lazily and mischievously, streaks of daring black across an otherwise clear blue sky. Or perhaps a song bird would perch daintily on one of the thin twigs that meandered outward from the large trees in the yard. It would flick its wings and cock its head quizzically, hopping to and fro, its song a kind of music that surpassed any string quartet or chamber group in its unrestrained freedom and beauty. Perhaps, she would stumble across in one of her father's books a description of fantastical birds from faraway places, in all the colours of the rainbow, with calls and habits that defied imagination. The blue-and-gold macaw, with its brilliant plumage and harsh call, or the paradise birds, defying imagination, captured in flight by artistry – long would Alice peruse the pages of her father's texts, and always she would think how impudent it was of someone to attempt to cage such magnificence, if only with the stroke of a brush.

Charles Kingsleigh watched his youngest daughter with the keen eye of fatherhood and a fond smile, before mentioning his observations to his wife. Though he had the purest of intentions at heart, he could not have imagined what calamity Helen's actions might bring.

When Alice returned home one afternoon, and, on her way to her bedroom heard the sounds of chirping and song and rustling feathers, she stopped dead in the hallway. Perhaps she had left the window open, and she could hear the sounds flowing indoors from outside? Hurried hands had scrabbled at the brass knob and pushed open the old, wooden door. The sight that met her eyes summoned tears and brought the youngest Kingsleigh running to crash to her knees, slumped at the foot of an ornate, yet small, round cage that now occupied one corner of the room.

The cage's inhabitant pressed itself to the thin metal bars, eyeing her curiously and trilling – how strange, this human, to throw itself to the ground! Alice pulled herself up, furiously wiping at her moist, traitor eyes and meeting the bird's curious gaze with a troubled expression. She brought a finger to the edge of the cage – the bars were too small for even the tip of her tiniest finger to slip through. Recognising the finch from her father's books, Alice mumbled a greeting under her breath, captivated despite herself at the way the little bird seemed to size up how much of a threat this newcomer really was. She turned and offered a watery smile to her parents, explaining that she was overcome by the gift, before seating herself on the bed adjacent to the bird's prison. Her new room-mate cocked its head and chirped. Joy at watching the finch's antics momentarily overrode her sorrow, and Alice giggled, watching in fascination as the small bird ran its beak through its feathers, aligning them and sending up a small cloud of dust.

Alice waited until dawn to set the finch free, and rejoiced as its lilting song joined with a myriad of others to welcome the light of a new day.

Charles observed, and learnt from his mistake, and came up with an alternative. Two days later, he presented his daughter with a gift: a piece of circular card, with a piece of string attached to either end. On one side was a finch identical to the ones that flitted about outside her window, and on the other, an empty cage. As Alice watched, her father took hold of the ends of the string in each hand, and span – the finch appeared to be caged, and yet, she could listen to the song of the birds outside and know they were free. The young Alice embraced her father in a fierce hug, as his laughter mingled with the song floating in through the window and his hand came to rest on her hair.

Years later, after her father had passed away and Alice was due to be wed, she gazed up at the sky and wondered what it would be like to fly.

* * *

The birds of Underland were nothing like the birds of England, and yet Alice Kingsleigh-Hightopp could not help but be similarly entranced by their antics, their song, and their magnificent plumage. Subsequently, she spent several hours wandering the gardens of the White Castle with Mirana, marvelling at the wonders of feathered life and the freedom they enjoyed. The original gift of her father's had stayed in London with Helen Kingsleigh, but Alice had explained the concept to the White Queen, who had taken to it with enthusiasm, adding a few enhancements of her own. The final creation was something which Alice was sure her father would have taken in his stride with a wide smile and a willingness to learn, as Mirana wove her magic into the design, so that when spun, the bird came to life, fluttering and whistling from the cardboard. If still, a magically enhanced little finch would eye anyone with distance curiously, preening its feathers with the same careful precision Alice had admired as a child.

When her husband, Tarrant Hightopp, explained to her that the Queen had something she desired them to do, Alice's curiousity was piqued. His eyes – a bright, vivid green – held a tell-tale spark of excitement, and as he led her to the Bandersnatch, saddled and waiting, he kissed her lips softly and explained that all would be revealed in due time. For once, Alice – and the Bandersnatch, surprisingly – let Tarrant take the metaphorical reins, speeding through Underland's varied landscape and racing toward their destination with a gracefulness that belied the animal's awkward form. Alice clamped her arms about Tarrant's waist and thrilled in the sounds of pure life that trilled through her ears.

However, as Alice learnt that their final destination was Salazen Grum, she could not supress a shiver, and, admittedly, some confusion. The former Castle of the Red Queen had been restored and given to the people of Underland as a transformed city, and yet Alice could not understand why Mirana would send her Champion and one of her most trusted advisers – who incidentally happened to double as her Hatter – to inspect the city and Castle. When Tarrant rode through the gates of the courtyard, halting the Bandersnatch only at the entrance to the Castle itself, Alice could not stop herself asking _why_.

Tarrant merely silenced her with a kiss and a grin – to which she scowled – before he began to lead her through the twisting passageways that formed Iracebeth's former home. There were sections of the Castle that she had never seen before, and she wondered how it was that her high spirited husband seemed to know them all so well – surely he could not have been here more than a handful of times? He overrode each of her queries with giggles and playful reprimands, tugging her along by the hand, earning them more than one exasperated look from the people who walked through the halls.

It was obvious when they reached their destination, for Tarrant paused before an ornate set of double doors – they were in a part of the Castle which Alice had never seen before, and she raised an eyebrow as the Hatter paused, looking concerned from a moment. He cupped her cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb over the skin under her eye familiarly, before offering her a nervous, anticipative smile and pushing open the doors.

Alice was hit with a sense of intense déjà vu; the sounds and sights that overwhelmed her threw her directly back to her childhood and the finch that she had been acquainted with for mere few short hours. For a moment, she wished to have her father's old, childhood gift in her hands again, so that she could spin and be content with an image, even if she had once thought it folly to try to capture such beauty with human hands. Cages, large and towering, filled a room which Alice thought would perhaps rival the size of the Great Hall itself. They were constructed in such a way that there formed a narrow walkway through the centre, each cage capturing a different environment and holding a myriad of feathered bundles.

The Champion shook her head, blinking back tears – she was many years older, now. She could not afford to cry at the sight of captivity, however much it pained her to see such magnificent creatures behind bars. Stunned, she walked forward a few paces, turning and raising a hand to the mesh of the first cage. Contained behind the twisting wire were the macaws of her father's texts, even more brilliant and dazzling in the flesh than a painter's brush could ever have hoped to capture. Tail spread wide, pupils rapidly dilating and then shrinking, one of the macaws sized her up from its perch near the front of its enclosure. It let out a harsh, ragged call, and its mate joined it, smoothing down the ruffled feathers on its head before puffing itself up and eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. Alice could not contain a small smile, despite herself – the birds were all she had imagined, and more. And yet –

"Why have you brought me here?" she whispered.

Tarrant closed the doors softly, before coming up behind her and resting a soothing hand on her shoulder.

"Because, love," he murmured, smiling at the antics of the magnificent, playful birds before them, "we are to set them free."

* * *

**A/N: **This is by far my favourite out of all of them; I thought I had already posted it here, but apparently not!

Naranne


End file.
